
Class 

Book_LL=ife-^_ 
Copyright N?. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Songs from the Capital 



by 



(IWo) 



Clara Ophelia Bland 




Boston 
Richard G. Badger 

The Gorham Press 
ICJ06 



Copyright 1906 by Clara Ophelia Bland 



All Rights Reserved 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

OCT 29 1906 

/) Copyright Entry 
U iJf '+<?, /fob 
CLASS A XXc„No, 

^?> If . 
COPY B. ' * 



The Gorham Press, Boston 



To My Mother 



CONTENTS 




Out of the Old Year into the New 


7 


Alabama ...... 


8 


Slanting Shadows .... 


11 


Measuring the Sunshine 


12 


Chrysanthemums .... 


14 


The Old Man of the Mountain 


17 


Christ is Risen ..... 


19 


The Birds ..... 


20 


Written for Capt. Grant on his Olst Birthday 


22 


Manila Souvenirs .... 


23 


A Legend ...... 


25 


To Anne ...... 


26 


Written upon the Birth of a Child . 


30 


The Bonnet ..... 


31 


The Chicken's Supper .... 


32 


An Ode to the Onion .... 


33 


Written for a Seventieth Birthday 


35 


To my Sister ..... 


36 


Whose Lips the Muses Kiss . 


37 


The Palm ...... 


39 


Don't Worry, There's Always a Way 


40 


Beaucaire ...... 


41 


Rose Leaves ..... 


42 


To Mr. Pool 


42 


Easter Logic ..... 


43 


Cupid's Duties ..... 


44 


The Silver Cup , 


47 


A Snow Fragment .... 


48 


My Laurel Wreath .... 


50 


A Song of Spring .... 


51 



A Course of Snubbing . 


53 


Princess Ice Cream 


55 


Thanksgiving Football in Georgia 


56 


In the Land of the Hawaiians 


57 


Sustaining Faith 


59 


A Verse for Every Day 


62 


For the New Year 


63 


Lines to a Bride .... 


64 


Cloud Caps . 


65 


The Land of Eternal Rest 


66 


A Christmas Thought 


67 


April ..... 


69 


A Thought ..... 


70 


The Subject Man 


70 


Three Poets .... 


71 


Sawdust on the Snow 


73 


If I'm Happy . 


74 


Yule-Tide ..... 


78 


A Child's Beseeching 


79 


A Thanksgiving Sonnet 


SO 


Chiselling ..... 


81 


Thanksgiving .... 


82 


Anomones ..... 


83 


Abba, Father .... 


84 


Chauron de Nuit 


85 


Chauron de Matin 


86 


Convalescence .... 


87 


Two Thanksgiving Sonnets 


88 


An Easter Palm 


90 



SONGS FROM THE CAPITAL 



OUT OF THE OLD YEAR INTO THE NEW 

Oh soul! which in the year that's newly past, 
Thy life note sung with scarcely parted lips, 
As low and mournful as the rain that drips 
In Autumn, thy method now recast ; 
Accompanied by the music of the bells 
Which tells us of a new and precious birth 
Whose influence sweet encircles all the earth, 
And while each cadence lingers on and swells, 
Inhale the balmy breath of this new year, 
And open wide the portals now of song; 
Unloose the bands of caution tied by fear, 
Which checked thy fullest singing far too long, 
'Till mortals on life's highway, drawing near, 
Ask, "do such notes issue from a world of wrong?' ' 



ALABAMA 

Oh play of Alabama! 

So sweet, so soft, so slow, 
Your music and your witchery 

Haunt me where e'er I go. 

Oh ! eloquence of silence ! 

As the old man walks alone, 
Through the ancestral garden, 

V S titling his life's long moan. 

Oh beauty of affection ! 

As Cary wandering near, 
Sees the tottering footsteps, 

And lingers on in fear. 

He falters; in a moment, 
Swift to his side she glides, 

While in the ancestral garden, 
The peace of God abides. 

Oh pride of age and weakness ! 

He repulses offered aid ; 
Though every hope had left him, 

That will never fade. 

And then this gentle helper, 
This second Little Nell, 

Made her offer once again, 
And all went well. 



And does it not remind one, 
As down the path they walk, 

Of the honeysuckles' fragrance 
Twined round a decaying stalk ? 

Oh the moonlight ! and the magic 
Of that "Cary" soft and low, 

Spoken by the father 

Whom the daughter did not know. 

Oh Cary! fast enfolded 

In a trinity of love, 
Likened in kind, if not in strength , 

To the Trinity above ! 

But it was not sufficient, 

And when the stranger came 

From out the far North country, 
The heart was not the same. 

It was the old, old story, 

And this trinity of love 
With which she was enfolded 

Could not hold the gentle dove. 

Just as the skylark built its nest 

Within the cannon grim, 
So this gentle dove flew forth 

And nestled up to him. 



Oh nature ! kind old mother, 
With her trailing grace, 

Covers o'er the cannon, 
Leaving scarce a trace. 

So nature, dearest mother, 
With her winsome grace, 

Draws two hearts together, 
Brings them face to face. 

Old memories are covered 
With the blossoming of love. 

And wedded hearts are blessed 
By the Trinity above. 



10 



SLANTING SHADOWS 

I do not know the world, 

Save when the slanting shadows fall, 
For when the world is brightest, 
And life is at its lightest, 

We are strangers, that is all. 

I have no sweet permission 

To go strolling in the sun, 

For until all work is done, 
There is no intermission. 

From the world clothed in its brightness, 

I strangely feel remote, 

Yet this does not denote 
A spirit void of lightness. 

For when the slanting shadows fall, 
I know it in its sweetness, 
And in its dim completeness, 

And, I love this fading world, that is all. 



MEASURING THE SUNSHINE 

When days are drear, and out of life 

Seems oozing drops of blood, 
And from sore and red-rimmed eyelids, 

The tears pour out a flood, 
When the strings of the heart are trailing 

Like a broken, bruised vine, 
What will draw them to their place, 

And cause them to entwine? 
Whispers a stirred Aeolian harp, 

"Measuring the sunshine. " 

When the brain is tired, and through its meshes 

Have leaked the ashes of Hope, 
Which falling through have chocked the heart, 

With its burdens striving to cope, 
When the beats are laboring fiercely 

To throw the forcing substance out, 
Until in the black, black chaos, 

Themselves and the world they doubt, 
Then thrust out a cornu-copia 

Into the ocean of sunshine, waiting there with- 
out. 



12 



When clouds hang heavy, and in the murky at- 
mosphere, 

Our forms are thickly pressed, 
And their touch is damp, and our spirit 

Is longing, crying for rest, 
Oh ! lift up bravely a strong right hand, 

Plunge it up, and through and through, 
Then you'll find they were not so hard nor thick, 

And that you've found the blue, 
While the fingers now are gloriously tinged 

With the sunshine, warm and true. 

When lips are trembling and so white and drawn, 

They scarce can frame the words 
To tell of sorrows that are here and there, 

As numberless as the birds, 
Yet let them speak of happy things, 

Of flowers and love divine, 
And the lips grow full and soft and sweet, 

Losing their piteous line ; 
Oh ! there's nothing in God's world so worth the 
while 

As — measuring the sunshine. 



13 



CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

Chrysanthemums in profusion, 
Chrysanthemums most rare, 

Chrysanthemums reared and tended 
By a mother's loving care ! 

' ' What though the spicy breezes 
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle," 

When flowers just as fragrant 
Are with us all the while. 

We rhapsodize the lily, 

And write an ode to the rose, 

As its perfume to us is wafted 
By every wind that blows. 

But these cheery autumn flowers 

Of every shade and hue, 
With their clean and spicy odor, 

Deserve a sonnet too. 

Oh sweet and lovely violet ! 

You come to us in the spring, 
And right royally are welcomed 

By poet, priest, and king. 

Oh June ! of months the rarest, 

And the roses' synonym, 
No praise of other flower 

Can e'er thy brightness dim. 



14 



Oh lily ! purest symbol 

Of the resurrection's dawn, 
Round each flower is a halo, 

By the hand of angels drawn. 

No earthly crown is needed, 

To attest thy merit dear ; 
In the kingdom of the flowers 

The lily has no peer. 

In the kingdom of the flowers, 

By chivalry the rose is queen, 
And the violet nestles closest 

To every heart I ween. 

Just as something very tender, 
Needs must find a shelter there 

'Gainst the winds of earth, whose roughness 
Tender things can never bear. 

But the roughest winds of autumn 
Chrysanthemums can not efface, 

For this lovely flower's texture 
Is not that of cobweb lace. 

In its character, nothing morbid, 

Ever cheery, bright, and true, 
Whether pink, or white, or garnet, 

Whatever be the shade or hue. 



15 



Just as if, oppressed with sadness, 
Shut in with our care and gloom, 

A friend's most cheerful entrance 

Should bring refreshment to the room ; 

So it is this flower's fragrance 
Speaks to us of life and health, 

Opens wide the door, and takes us 
More by storm than stealth. 

Speaks to us of autumn evenings 
And its cold breath on our cheek, 

But of firesides warm and cosy, 
It will also speak. 

In the kingdom of the flowers, 

Chrysanthemum is friend, 
As choice, as bright, as cheering, 

As any gift He sends. 



16 



THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 

Tell me, Old Man of the Mountain, 

What is the outlook, say? 
Are you left in charge of the mountains 

'Till the dawn of the judgment day? 
Does your watch make them calm and steadfast, 

Do the everlasting hills 
Absorb from you that sweet peace 

Which their presence ever distills ? 

Tell me, Old Man of the Mountain, 

Can you see beyond the blue walls 
That bind with their mystic circle 

To where the world in its progress calls 
For expansion across Southern waters, 

And a sailing into the west ? 
Will we do for the Philippine islands 

What is merciful, wise, and best ? 

Tell me, Old Man of the Mountain, 

Are you prophet, priest or king? 
Did you see the Eastern Magi 

Their gifts to the Saviour bring? 



17 



Did you mark the flight into Egypt, 
The pillar of cloud and the flame? 

Enlisted in the service 

Of the child so free from blame? 

Tell me, Old Man of the Mountain, 

Of the prophets of the past, 
When Isaiah predicted of Babylon 

That its glories could not last, 
When Hosea, the white robed prophet 

With patient, far seeing eyes, 
Exhorted the kingdom of Israel 

To turn to the Lord and be wise. 

Old Man of the Mountain, tell me, 

Have you gazed since creation's dawn? 
And will you still be steadfast 

On that wonderful Judgment morn? 
When by angels and clouds attended, 

The Lord shall come from afar, 
Oh ! will He not reward you 

For your watch o'er the Sorrowful Star ? 



18 



CHRIST IS RISEN 

Christ is Risen ! 

In our hearts, may faith and all good will 

Be risen like an incense, His teachings to fulfil 

On this Easter glorious, and when its sun has set, 

And as the year rolls onward, do not the words 

forget, 
Christ is Risen ! 



19 



THE BIRDvS 

Oh the birds up in the Senate, 

How they sing ! 
How they climb among the columns 

As their voices ring, 
Making but a playhouse 

Of so august a thing ; 
How majestic are the columns, 

How unconscious are the birds 
That their grace Corinthian 

Far surpasses words. 
How unmindful of the Father of his country 

As he stands, 
Far above them, as if blessing 

These fair lands. 
How they twitter, how they flutter, 

How they speak 
In a language of their own. 

How they seek 
To begin their morning early; 

Chatter to the passer by 
With such mirth and blitheness 

That you cry 
To your soul of souls, 

Oh why 
Was not I a winged creature ! 

And you sigh! 
A weary toiler, past the Senate, 

Simply going by. 



20 



When the sun is sinking 

In the west, 
Back you come, thinking only 

Of the rest ; 
Oh the birds up in the column, 

Of the Senate wing, 
How they chirp, and fly and chatter 

As they sing ! 
Just as merry, blithe, and bonny 

As at break of day, 
Thought the weary toiler 

On the homeward way; 
Sees the sun is sinking 

In the west, 
Knows all toil is over, 

Now comes rest; 
Breathes the flowers' fragrance, 

Feels within his breast 
A thankfulness arise to his Creator 

Who made him man, 
Instead of winged bird 

In His great plan; 
Content to labor on and suffer, 

It is best ; 
And the only way to understand 

The miracle of rest. 



21 



WRITTEN FOR CAPTAIN GRANT ON HIS 
61st BIRTHDAY 

The ladies were guessing 

Oh ! what is his age, 
This most occult problem 

Is now all the rage. 

One asked the carnation, 

Ofttimes called the pink, 
' ' Now what is his age, 

Pray, what do you think ?" 

In chorus they answered, 

' ' By yonder bright sun, 
We swear that we think him 

But just twenty-one." 



22 



MANILA SOUVENIRS 

They came from far Manila, 

They came from over the sea 
They came from a dearly loved one 

To bring a message to me. 

They were thin and filmy fragments, 

One traced in cerulean blue 
Was like the sky when the storm has past, 

And the sun has broken through. 

One was just as dainty, 

And matched the conch shell's hue, 
As it lies on the shore when the storm has past, 

And the sun has broken through. 

The third was quite as lovely, 

With the tint of the golden rod, 
As in early fall it rears its head 

Above the mellow sod. 

And it was as yellow 

As a wedding ring so true, 
After the storms of courtship, 

And the sun has broken through. 



23 



They were dainty, fragile nothings, 
For ornament were meant, 

For nothing else, except to bear 
The message that he sent. 

And these transparent trifles, 

To preserve them from the knocks 

In the mail from far Manila, 

Were sent in a tooth powder box. 

Here was a joining of forces, 
The box bore Dr. Lyon's name, 

While the merchandise was painted 
In the land from whence it came. 



24 



A LEGEND 

Often in childhood we've been told, 

At the foot of the rainbow is a bag of gold, 

But another legend has come to light 

About this arch so high and bright. 

Out in the West the Indians brave 

Say that our vast o'er arching concave 

Is merely the cover to a dish, 

While the rainbow's but a serpent or fish, 

The scales of which in scraping the sky, 

Send the pattering raindrops from on high, 

But when winter rules the land you know, 

This attrition sends us the beautiful snow. 

This mystic cover to our globe, 

All enwrapped in aerial robe, 

Rests on the shoulders of a bird, 

So runs the legend I have heard. 

It lifts its wings and through the space, 

Although its flight they can not trace, 

The spirit escapes by zephyrs fanned, 

Up to its home in the Spirit land ; 

And when the crane folds up its wings, 

The dire commotion that it brings 

Is the earth-quake with its awful thrill, 

Bidding the bravest heart stand still. 

Oh Indians ! with the legends sweet ! 

As into the past your glories retreat, 

I breathe a prayer for you who roam 

As strangers in your once wild home. 



25 



TO ANNE 

What made it sadder when she died ? it was this ; 
That I was far away who loved her, 
I could neither touch nor see her, 
Nor even give, one last, fond kiss. 

Of all the pain I suffer, what need to tell, 

And all the strife ; 

Out of which I only say, 

I loved her, oh ! so well. 

Each summer came, and found her grown more 

tall, 
And still I called her "my little sister," 
vStrangers might smile, might even query why? 
'Twas only that I loved her, that was all. 

My wish was always this, to make her "pretty 
things, " 

For when a girl is young and fair, — 

Ah ! well ! with brown-eyed wonder, now, per- 
haps, 

She strokes her newly given fluttering wings. 

Almost the youngest one of all the rest, 

She leads the way ; Oh Father, let me follow next ! 

If thou should'st ask me why, I'd say, 

"I loved her most, and best." 

I knew it first, I do not mean to boast, 

But 'twas whispered by some angel, as I slept, 

In that I was far away. 

And loved, and prayed the most. 



26 



How much wiser now is she than I, 
For all my study of deep philosophy, 
Of spiritual and therefore subtle laws, 
Eluding search, however much I try. 

I think Christ must have loved us, for he stood 

the test ; 
Himself was subdivided, 

While One Mighty Part, compels the Other Part 
To ensure for us that "Entered into rest. " 

His was the part of suffering all the way; 
Until that crucifixion of Godhead, 
Climax of all pain, 
Although of that He does not speak nor say. 

I think it up and down, and in and out, 
And still the mystery is just the same, 
And still the wonder grows that she was not 

afraid, 
And she so young to take that darkest route.. 

Have pity, Oh my Father, and my Lord, 
The world goes on, but life is not the same, 
Nor can be now, for in my heart, 
She struck almost its tenderest chord. 

I was painting, just for her, a castle, now I do not 

care, 
Its name was Warwick, its inmate, Amy Robsart, 
All this was I saving, some sweet day to tell her, 
Now the painting and the telling, is a castle in the 

air. 



27 



What makes it saddest, was about that kiss, 
I've been wading, knee-deep in trouble, 
But I was not sad 'till now ; I never even dreamed 
That life could be so sad as this. 

Out of all the gloom there comes this good, 
Heaven, before so vague, why now is just as plain, 
As though it were a room to hold that little sister, 
And yet — not quite, but still, in part, 'tis under- 
stood. 

Oh! to have had one look, at that sweet, en- 
coffined face, 
Envy now, of those who did, 
A thing for years barred out, 
Within my heart, is struggling for a place. 

Those clods of earth upon her breast! my lips 

grow white ! 
None ever guessed, save a discerning few, 
My love's deep flow, 
For I kept my heart so tight. 

'Tis bow, 'tis bend, 'tis submission and surrender 
Of everything we love; here's one who would not 

yield, 
But that he proved on Calvary 
He too could suffer, and be tender. 

It is as in contesting wills, the woman yields, 

A simile intensified ; 

His reason must be this I've thought; 

In spring He plants His lilies in the fields. 



28 



I hold in my clasp my prayer book, as an anchor, 

and in lieu 
Of an understanding, tender hand, 
While to me it seems, that from my pressure, 
The book would come in two. 

Now that was sweet, I think, for every brother, 

each and all, 
Lending their help, in death, (as well as life), 
In boyhood's strength, and manhood's might, 
To lift and bear the pall. 

Let me speak once more, once more, about that 

kiss; 
My life was always sad, 

But is n't it sadder when you never even dreamed 
That life could be so sad as this? 



29 



WRITTEN UPON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD 

The winter snows are drifting, 
Yet a flower blooms on earth, 

Exhaling rarest fragrance, 
Atoning for all dearth. 

The violet is all sweetness, 

The roses are the same, 
This flower far outranks them ; 

Katrina is the name. 



30 



THE BONNETS 

The horses are donning bonnets 
In nineteen hundred and one, 

And though a peculiar custom 
It protects them from the sun. 

Some of them look coquettish, 
And some of them look sedate, 

And all of them seem to wonder 
Why the bonnets came so late. 

Think of the weary summers 

Since the world begun, 
That this useful animal 

Went journeying in the sun. 

Think of the patient animal 
With head bared to the sun, 

All through the many ages 
Since the race begun. 

Think of the noble creature 

Crowned with a piece of sponge, 

Apt to be displaced 
By the merest lunge. 



31 



Think of the slight protection 

Of a piece of green, 
With which country horses 

Many times are seen. 

But only think of the progress 
The twentieth century makes 

When the horse is put in a bonnet 
And kindly to it takes. 

For some of them look coquettish 
And some of them look sedate, 

And all of them seem to wonder 
Why the bonnets came so late. 



THE CHICKENS' SUPPER 

Three little chickens dipped into the plate 
But one little chick had none, 

For this dear little one trotted up 
When the others were almost done. 



AN ODE TO THE ONION. 

The onion cures insomnia, 
The onion's good for food; 

In short, I sing of onion, 
With every grace endued. 

If onion cures insomnia, 
It also cures the bite 

Of cat, or dog, or reptile, 
When applied just right. 

If bitten by a reptile, 
As soon as this is seen, 

Why, just apply an onion, 
And watch it turn to green. 

But pray, do not discard it ; 

Now see the yellow cast ! 
These changes are an index 

Your illness will not last. 

If patient, wise, and tender, 
And courage do not lack, 

You'll see the consummation, 
The onion turned to black. 



33 



Now of the humble onion, 
A writer one day told 

That in any city market 
For a penny it sold, 

But if it cost one dollar, 
Its praises would be told 

By poets. I sing to prove, 
I do not worship gold. 



34 



WRITTEN FOR A SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY 

A quiet life in a shaded room, 

The sunshine of youth all faded, 
And nature's sunshine rarely seen 

Which oft this hills hath braided 
Yet still into this shaded room 

Will glorious sunshine pour, 
When children's voices end the night 

In entering at the door. 



35 



TO MY SISTER 

That you are young, and fair, and happy, 

Any one can see ; 
May you always and forever 

Very happy be. 

While the music plays, we dance 

With the utmost glee, 
I in black and you in red, 

As happy as can be. 

With my arm around your waist, 

Up and down the hall, 
As the music plays, I fancy 

We are at a ball. 

We are together, so we are happy, 

As happy as can be, 
May we always cling together, 

Sailing o'er life's sea. 

As the birthdays come to meet you, 

Happy may you be, 
While you grow in grace and goodness, 

As well as fair to see. 



36 



WHOSE LIPS THE MUSES KISS 

On stepping stones in the river of time, 

Scholars mount to the ages past, 
And view their crumbling monuments, 

Teaching lessons that will last ; 
The records of these valiant lives 

The world would sorely miss, 
But are these words more forceful 

Than those the Muses kiss? 

The statesman guides the ship of state 

With wisdom's patient care, 
And well he knows the rocks and reefs 

Of which he must beware. 
In Senate hall his words ring out 

With eloquence, but this 
Is not the melody which breathes 

From lips the Muses kiss. 



37 



To music's charm we all must bow, 

For Orpheus ever lives 
To stir us with the witchery 

His mystic lyre gives. 
The music of the spheres rolls on, 

Its grandeur we should miss, 
But dearer to the heart his song 

Whose lips the Muses kiss. 

A maiden looks upon the world 

With wistful, wondering eyes, 
What will be her destiny, 

As time onward, swiftly flies? 
To wear the crown of wedded love, 

To woman this is bliss, 
But she too is sacred 

Whose lips the Muses kiss. 



38 



THE PALM 

Written after seeing Duveneck' s Study of his Wife, in the 
Boston Museum of Art. 



A woman carved in marble, 
Across her breast the palm, 

No trace of dust of conflict, 
But a look of heavenly calm. 

I envied not the artist 

For the touch of genius shown, 
In the graceful, yielding figure 

Evoked from lifeless stone. 

It was an object lesson : 

I read, her race is run, 
And without the dust of conflict 

The palm could not be won. 

I murmured, here is genius, 
This its consummation rare, 

Yet I envied not the artist, 
But the woman sleeping there. 



39 



DON'T WORRY, THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY 

Don't worry, there's always a way, 

But it's oft-times hard to find, 
And we grope on blindly, day by day, 

And the skein will not unwind. 

We look to the left, but the rocks lie thick, 

To the right we turn, and are caught in thorns, 

Then it is that the heart grows sick 
As the cloud of misfortune dawns. 

Down the hill we look for a path to tread, 
The grass is soft, and the way quite clear, 

But at the bottom lies a watery bed 

Whose deep, dark depths fill the soul with fear. 

Faint heart, don't worry, there's always a way, 
Look up ! there's a path up the mountain side, 

The light is breaking ! Greet the dawn of day ! 
Climb up, tremble, trust; in your Lord confide. 



40 



BKAUCAIRK. 

Oh Beaucaire ! in your wig of brown, 

Here's my opinion, most profound, 

That in your coat of black brocade, 

The very best fit that was ever made, 

You are worthy of love, and I do declare, 

In spite of Lady Mary, I love you, too, Beaucaire. 

Oh Beaucaire! in your coat of white, 

And with your golden hair so light, 

As out into the world you go, 

And in the minuet bow so low, 

I am not sure, but I suppose 

If I were Lady Mary, I too, would give the rose. 

Oh Beaucaire! in your royalty drest, 

When lightest wish is a behest, 

When on your breast the orders flash, 

It may be that my soul is rash, 

But as you scorn this paltry pelf, 

I too, like Lady Mary, would simply give myself. 



41 



ROSE LEAVES 

June is the month for roses, 

But the prelude sweet 
Is May, enticing the babies 

Forth from their retreat. 

Homeward from work returning, 

Care is charmed away 
By the sight of human rose leaves, 

Drifting about in May. 

Blue is the sky above me, 

Tempting thought to soar, 
But the touch of these human rose leaves, 

Soothes my spirit more. 



TO MR. POOL 

To show that we will miss you, 
We've invoked the flowers' aid, 

And for such gentle missions, 
Fragrant flowers were made. 



42 



EASTER LOGIC 

I must write an Easter poem, 
While the festival is here, 

While the presence of the season, 
Makes its meaning clear. 

Shall it be a score of verses, 

All in dainty rhyme, 
Or shall its meaning be embodied, 

In one thought sublime? 

If I wrote a score of verses, 
To make my meaning plain, 

Every other line would end, 
With the same refrain. 

All through life's toil and trouble, 
We walk by faith, not sight, 

But Easter morning shows us 
Truth in another light. 

On this dearest of all mornings, 
To Mary Christ appeared, 

Then broke away like morning mist, 
All that we had feared. 

All doubt is passed and over, 
For by Mary Christ was seen, 

And through life's toil and trouble, 
On this sweet truth we lean. 



43 



CUPID'S DUTIES 

Alexandra, lady, queen, 

Daughter of sea-kings grand, 

Proud are you and proudly mated 
To the highest in your land. 

Oh ! gentle dames colonial, 

Of sixteenth century grace, 
The pride of ancestry is stamped 

On each patrician face. 

And National daughters, D. A. R., 

Patriotic and full of fire, 
Proudly wear ancestral bars 

That speak of some grandsire. 

But a prouder ancestry still is traced 

By a little elusive god, 
From whose wiles no one is safe 

Until he is under the sod. 

From Venus, most beautiful Goddess, 

And Mercury, also divine, 
Came Cupid, the proud little sovereign, 

Who brings the whole world into line. 

And Mercury, of messages bearer, 
An orator, herald, and God, 

Is son to Omnipotent Jupiter, 
Who rules the world with a nod. 



44 



And so it is seen that blind Cupid, 
Though holding a prominent place 

In the time that is past and the present, 
Has a right to prestige and grace. 

The painter seeks with genius 
To transfer to his canvas bare, 

Some of the charm and beauty 

Which is Cupid's, piquant and rare. 

And Cupid counts it a duty, 

To lend himself to the plan, 
Then he's off and away with his arrows, 

To reap any harvest he can. 

But the sculptor too detains him, 
And modeling on with his clay, 

Is lost in a dream of rapture, 
Then Cupid is off and away. 

Perhaps he has gladly consented 

To drive in a chariot drawn 
By swans, gentle doves, or sparrows, 

O'er clouds as smooth as a lawn, 

With Venus his beautiful mother, 
Decked in roses and myrtle green, 

And Cupid nestles the closer 
To a love that is felt, not seen. 



45 



Then off and away with his arrows, 

To the forest of human hearts, 
And a wonderful thing 'tis, tho' blinded, 

So true is the aim of his darts. 

Then off with his butterflies playing, 

The toys of this dainty God, 
Emblems too of the soul, which ne'er lingers 

With its garments outworn, in the sod. 

But well for the world he's industrious, 
Loves better to shoot than to play ; 

The world is supplied with an axis, 
Cupid speeds it on its way. 

But of all the varied duties 

Accomplished by Cupid with art, 

There is none that is sweeter, nor dearer, 
Nor draws him so close to the heart, 

Than when at a golden wedding, 

Two hands are clasped without fears; 

A curtain is drawn, and lo ! Cupid, 
Holding together the years. 



THE SILVER CUP 

I sat before the white robed priest, 

Within the church, 
And all his words to me seemed trite, 
To find some hidden word of light, 

The while I search. 

At last my wandering thoughts were fixed, 

And looking up, 
From priestly lips were falling words, 
As beautiful as the song of birds, 

About a cup. 

Within a learned chemist's shop, 

A careless youth, 
Let fall a cup in silver wrought, 
And in strong acid it was caught, 

Dissolved in truth. 

The chemist mild was undismayed, 

And calmly brought 
Another acid, mixed the two, 
When lo ! there slowly came to view, 

The silver sought. 

And if the chemist, naught but man, 

Could reunite 
Dissolved fragments, surely God 
Can call our dust from 'neath the sod, 

By His great might. 



47 



A SNOW FRAGMENT 

Here and there, 
Through the air, 

Fly I like the birds, 
Gathering straw, 
Crude and raw, 

For my nest of words. 

Through the snow, 
On I go, 

Feasting with my eyes, 
Each pure spot, 
Free from blot, 

Showing where beauty lies. 

Could I write 
In words of light, 

It would be to tell, 
That the earth, 
Since its birth, 

Never looked so well. 



48 



In bright green 
It is seen, 

Over half the year, 
None the less, 
This fresh dress, 

Does not seem so dear. 

Spring is fair, 
Summer rare, 

Autumn casts a spell, 
But winter's show 
Of falling snow, 

Makes even age look well. 



MY LAUREL WREATH 

The Queen of the Nile, with wiles and art, 
Sought the homage and favor of men, 
While the story of her potent spell 
Seems marvelous now as then. 

The Grecian maids with assiduous care 
Sought beauty, and grace of mind, 

While its fair accomplishment is voiced 
On the records of mankind. 

Cornelia, of matronhood the flower, 
Bright jewels did not prize, 

But sought the light of a widowed life 
Within her children's eyes. 

But I, through all the moments 
Pray that the Muse will teach 

Thoughts so sublime and tender, 
I shall win my laurel wreath. 



50 



A SONG OF SPRING 

My heart was weary of winter, 
And watching for signs of spring, 

Hoping this winsome season 
Would days of happiness bring. 

Flora, divining my longing, 
This Roman Goddess of spring 

Sent a succession of flowers, 
Messages sweet to bring. 

Earliest came the crocus, 

Tulips and daffodils too, 
Brought to my soul a message 

In the voice of a dove's soft coo. 

Violets gladdened my vision, 
As fresh as the time of youth, 

Before the serpent's venom 
Has soiled the mantle of truth. 

Hyacinths daintily shook their bells 

To gladden me as I passed, 
The fragrant salutation said, 

Longed for spring has come at last. 

Thus a succession of flowers 

Spring's arrival told below, 
But the most emphatic announcement 

Came forth from my friend the crow. 



51 



High above all on the Senate, 
This bird philanthropic I saw, 

Paternal benevolence mingled 

With his hoarse and harsh, caw, caw. 

Quoth this bird from his pulpit, 

"Spring has come at last, caw, caw, 

The ice bound earth is vanquished, 
Wildest nature yields to law. " 

As my steps bore me off in the distance, 

This crow enthroned I saw, 
Still emphasizing the doctrine, 

That all things live by law. 



52 



A COURSE OF SNUBBING 

Did you ever hear of a course of snubbing, 

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, 
Did you ever hear of a course of snubbing 

For those who are simply churls ; 
For those who are so conceited, 

They ever love to see 
Those gentle, timid ladies 

Who will their flatterers be? 

Now once a churl met a type of lady, 

Who was not so gentle, you know, 
And she determined on a course of snubbing, 

To bring his pride down low ; 
For instance, he went to see her, 

She was haughty, stately, cold, 
And 'ere the visit was ended, 

His mien was not so bold. 



53 



But it takes a course of snubbing, ladies, 

For those deeply dyed in conceit, 
On homoepathic doses 

The system ne'er grows replete; 
But an allopathic treatment 

Of snubbing, full and strong, 
Will gradually bring the most conceited 

To own he is in the wrong. 

On this strong minded type of lady, 

One day the gentleman made a call, 
'Twas on that day, be it remembered, 

His pride was given the fall ; 
He came all dressed, resplendent, 

Prince Albert coat and high silk hat, 
He asked her to go to the theatre, 

And, Mirabile Dictu, she refused him flat. 



54 



PRINCESS ICE CREAM 

When the day is hot and trying, 
And old Sol sends down his beams 

With such fierce relentless ardor, 
That to us it surely seems 

We shall soon dissolve in wonder, 

Or evaporate in air, 
What will stop this melting process? 

Why, the Princess passing there. 

She it is who's tall and stately, 
She it is on whom the beam 

Of old Sol makes no impression, 
Princess fair, surnamed Ice Cream. 

When she passes in the morning, 
So collected, calm, and cool, 

All will stop to gaze, each willing 
Just to be her slave or tool. 

As she glides along at twilight, 
Like a spirit cool and white, 

All the sultry day's forgotten, 
And we marvel at the sight. 

But it is at noontide's splendor, 

When there is no hope, 'twould seem, 

That she is our life preserver, 

Princess fair, surnamed Ice Cream. 



55 



THANKSGIVING FOOTBALL IN GEORGIA 

The sons of Athens were assembled, 

In the late and glorious fall, 
To greet and welcome Auburn 

In the lusty game, football. 

The eager crowd was waiting, 

Which team shall the conqueror be, 

Not more puzzling was the problem, 
Lady or Tiger, which shall he see. 

Now should Auburn win the battle, 
That would make the welkin ring, 

And each gladsome heart be ready, 
To rejoice, give thanks, and sing. 

But should Athens win the laurel, 
Louder still would be the cry, 

As each thankful warrior murmured, 
"Turkey next, and then mince pie. " 



56 



IN THE LAND OF THE HAWAIIANS 

In the land of the Hawaiians, 

Lilioukalani queen, 
Many quaint and curious customs 

Oftentimes are seen; 
When a friend is parting from them, 

Around the neck is thrown, 
In loving, sweet remembrance, 

A wreath of flowers new blown, 
And to the dear one leaving, 

The whispered words are few, 
But the message of the flowers 

Is this, "my love to you." 

And in this land of ours, 

Every woman pure, a queen, 
To these gentle deeds and missions 

Her heart must surely lean, 
And if she can not place the flowers 

Which her hand hath wrought, 
Wreathe about the friend at parting, 

Necklaces of thought. 



57 



Whether in the early morning, 

Parting only for the day, 
Or in the hurried noontime, 

Meeting on the way, 
Wreathe about the dear one, 

Such a fragrant thought, 
'Twill sweeten even toiling, 

With which the world is fraught. 

In the land of the Hawaiians, 

Partings come for aye, 
In this great land of ours, 

Still, it is the way, 
But cheer the last sad parting, 

With, "my love to you," 
And the angel's greeting 

May be these words anew. 



58 



SUSTAINING FAITH 

A soul once longed for power, 

For power, knowledge, and wealth, 

And this to the exclusion 

Of the soul's most perfect health. 

It could not gain true meekness, 
Though bent 'neath poverty's yoke, 

And still it longed for power, 

When clouds most ominous broke. 

And thus the years went onward, 
Leaving blessings in their flight, 

And sometimes bringing sorrow, 
Which changed life's joy to night. 

And still this soul was longing 

For power, which means vast wealth, 

For into the spirit's chamber 
Had crept discontent by stealth. 

Then one day on the stillness 

Of the Sabbath peace there rang, 

The thrilling cry of fire, 

While the nuns at vespers sang. 

But music was drowned in the rushing 
Of firemen stalwart and brave, 

Onward to conquer the danger, 
Their dearly loved city to save. 



59 



Who does not love and revere them, 
These firemen brave and strong, 

And their deeds of valor in life, 
Are written in prose and song. 

But what is the strength of thousands 
Of men in their pride and might, 

Against the fire fiend's progress, 
While God permits the fight. 

So thought this soul, onlooking, 
While the proudest buildings fell, 

And hushed to solemn silence 
Was the sweet toned vesper bell. 

So thought this soul, still watching, 
As iron and steel did bend, 

And even distant cities 

Were petitioned help to send. 

Nothing teaches repentance, 
Save the sterner lessons of life, 

And appalling disasters 

With which the world is rife. 



60 



This soul, looking on at the conflict, 
Saw earth's splendid pomp laid low, 

While earth and the heavens were lighted 
With the lurid glare of the foe. 

And into the spirit's chamber 

There crept, like a noiseless wraith, 

Something eclipsing earth's longings, 
And this was, sustaining faith. 



61 



A VERSE FOR EVERY DAY 

Monday. Gird on thy strength and forward go, 
Strive thou to meet with Weal, not 
Woe. 

Tuesday. Wreathe thou thy face with joy and 
smiles, 
Weal is captured by simple wiles. 

Wednesday. E'en though Weal should chance to 
hide, 
Frown not darkly, with patience 
bide. 

Thursday. Look not backward, lest Woe thou 
see, 
Stealthily, surely, following thee. 

Friday. Frown not darkly, for glances grim, 

Call up the shadow of Woe so dim. 

Saturday. Put on thy strength and onward go, 
Thy path may be uncrossed by Woe. 

Sunday. Once having gained the hallowed day, 
In prayer forget the shadowed way. 



62 



FOR THE NEW YEAR 

Faith to believe in the heart 
What in our prayers we say, 

That God will take our part, 
And protect us on the way. 

Faith in our reason to trust, 
To argue well from the past, 

So far we have come, God must 
Be faithful e'en to the last. 

Faith in His arms to rest, 
Believing that all is well, 

That only things which are best 
The new year to us will tell. 

Trusting, believing, longing 
To fulfil our mission here ; 

High ideals never wronging, 

Heaven's King will hold us dear. 

Faith to be cured of longing 
Save for our mission here, 

Faith to be saved from wronging 
Any creature, far or near. 



63 



LINES TO A BRIDE 

May this mirror prove to be 

The fabled fountain of youth, 
And as the years pass o'er you 

Oh ! may it say with truth, 
"The glance you give at twilight, 

When the work of life is done, 
Shows still that grace and beauty 

Which your marriage circlet won. 



64 



CLOUD CAPS 

Caps there are of laces, 

And caps there are of gauze ; 

Why make mention of them? 
Oh well, why just because, 

Some ladies go a calling 
Dressed in rainbow tints, 

Eyes and faces smiling 
Like sunshine as it glints 

Between the leaves of April, 
And at eve across the lawn, 

But once beyond home's threshold, 
They put their cloud caps on. 

A shame it is that ladies, 

Though owning caps of gauze, 

Will don a cloudy headdress, 
Breaking harmonious laws. 

Within the home so sacred 
Please, from early morn, 

Wear gauzes, laces, sunshine, 
Don't put the cloud caps on. 



65 



THE LAND OF ETERNAL REST 

I will set my face 

To the land of Eternal Rest, 
Wearing the sweet flower 

Of hope upon my breast. 

Training my eyes to look 
To the land of Eternal Rest, 

Yielding to true wisdom 
Which tells me this is best. 

This will be the source 

From which to draw new zest, 

Evening shadows falling, 
Bring nearer Eternal Rest. 



66 



A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT 

Within a darkened chamber, 
A child was sinking to rest, 

And one little hand was toying 
With a flower upon his breast. 

The portion for his Christmas, 
Had been the cross of pain, 

But the surgeon's work was over, 
And peace began her reign. 

Without, the winter's bleakness 
Was masked in robes of white, 

Forming witchery of beauty, 
Bringing fairyland in sight, 

Father and mother lingered 

Beside their only one, 
Their anguish spoke in heart throbs, 

And now the day was done. 

"Father," hush, a whisper, 

The scientist bent low, 
"Father, can you tell me 

What causes it to snow?" 

The scientist was puzzled, 

Then spoke in measured tone ; 

"Watery particles are frozen, 
This much to us is known. 



67 



At first, each separate particle, 
Comes falling through the air, 

And then all these uniting 
Form the snowflake there." 

Within the chamber silence, 

Again a question low, 
"Mother, can you tell me 

What causes it to snow?" 

Then o'er her loved one bending 
The mother answered low, 

"To purify the world for Christ, 
God clothed the earth with snow. " 

Within a darkened chamber, 
A child was sinking to rest, 

But if one caught the whisper, 'twas, 
"My mother answered best." 



68 



APRIL 

April has come clad in robes 

Of dainty and tender green, 
While we wonder that frequent showers 

Do not tarnish their delicate sheen. 

But no, for only survey them, 

After the deluge is o'er; 
Surely that hint of emerald 

Is clearer now than before. 

Then when the sun has bathed them, 
The brow of thought is knit ; 

When are the robes most charming, 
Free from stain, or by sunshine lit? 

Swiftly comes the conclusion, 

'Tis April we love, whether dressed 

In robes that are drenched with showers, 
Or smiled on by Sol at his best. 



A THOUGHT 

Aurora opes the gates of morning, 

Mythology has taught, 
As worthy of Apotheosis 

He who opes the gates of thought. 



THE SUBJECT MAN 

I wrote all my thoughts on the subject man, 

Plainly down in a book, 
But on reading over my copious notes, 

Was appalled at the time that it took. 

And so the decision briefly was made, 

That but for the time that it took, 
The world and his wife should surely have heard, 

What I wrote down in that book. 



70 



THREE POETS 

When my home was the evening star, 
So brilliant, so fair and so far, 
And Aurora, sweet goddess, passed by, 
Descending to earth from the sky, 
Ecstatic I waited to see 
If, perchance, a rose dropped for me. 
Then I, with my rose wet with dew, 
Sought my sister spirit who knew 
That my heart kept time with her own, 
This Milton 'mong women and known, 
From earth to the distant Mars, 
On and up to the far away stars. 

When my home was Venus the bright, 
Through siderial space I took flight, 
Past Jupiter's clouds found my way, 
To a singer now crowned with bay, 
Through the sadness of whose mystic eyes 
Was fast dawning a glad surprise, 
That earth and its gloom was all past, 
And Divine truth, his own, at last. 



71 



At the feet of this poet, in awe, 
I lingered and looked, 'till I saw 
Earth's shadows depart from his face, 
Then downward descended through space. 

When my eye caught the colors of Mars, 
The red and the green among stars, 
I knew 'twas my long destined place, 
For genius was there shedding grace. 
The sweet bard of Avon was there, 
Crowned of all men, with thoughts most rare, 
Next to God he divined human thought, 
And all that the struggling soul sought, 
His spirit at last, free to roam, 
Winged its flight to his far away home, 
Where his thought travels onward from Mars, 
On and up to the far away stars. 



72 



SAWDUST ON THE SNOW 

In the morning early, 

As out to work I go, 
When the air is thickening 

With flakes of falling snow, 

When the snow is mingled 
With drops of falling rain, 

And this again has frozen, 
A state which is my bane, 

Just when I am saddest 

At having thus to go, 
Comes the guardian angel, 

Sprinkling sawdust on the snow. 

Just when I am fearful 

Of falling on my head, 
I see a blessed haven 

Of ashes just ahead. 

And thus I struggle forward, 
While my head is bending low, 

Looking ever for that angel 

Sprinkling sawdust on the snow. 



73 



IF I'M HAPPY 

Oft they ask me if I'm happy, 

I know not what to say, 
Yes I'm happy, no, not happy 

All the live long day. 

When I first wake in the morning 

I am sure to see 
Drooping o'er my bed a shadow; 

Yet how can it be, 

When the sun is still unrisen ; 

Sun and shadow go 
Hand in hand, court seying, bowing to each other, 

To and fro. 

Playing hide-and-seek, and then 

Shadows have a way 
Of standing twixt the earth and sun 

All the live long day. 

But the Sun it hath much patience, 

Take it all in all, 
Always shining on, and peeping 

Over shadows tall. 

'Till at last midway ascending 

Heaven high and blue, 
The coquette shadows stoop to rest them, 

The sun it takes the cue, 



74 



And gives one look, a broad, full stare, 

The first and only one ; 
Then the shadows begin their teasing 

'Till the day is done. 

So when I first wake in the morning, 

Drooping o'er me there 
Is a shadow, cold and heavy; 

I evoke a prayer. 

Prayers and shadows meeting, follows an eclipse 

Just as sure 
As air will enter, in a room 

Through an open door. 

So when they ask me if I'm happy, 

I would tell them true ; 
I scan my sun's bright radiance; 

Yes, yes, the spots are few. 

When the earth, oppressed with languor, 

Draws a sigh, 
Unties its ribbons fresh and green, 

Throws them by, 

Looks up to Heaven, its dearest friend, 

And so true, 
I, I too, so sorry that I'm tired, 

Am tired too. 



75 



Then later comes a breeze, so soft and gentle, 

And with grace 
Flutters back each fresh green ribbon 

Into place. 

Next falls a shower, cool and sprinkling, 

On the pain; 
Leaving on earth's fresh green ribbons, dew-drops, 

Not a stain. 

In with the breezes and sprinkling showers 

The darkness twines 
Its softest self; o'er my mind comes stealing 

These few lines, 

Asked me in the freshness of the morning, 

Before the day 
Ringing out its many changes, had taught me 

What to say. 



"Are you happy?" In the twilight soft 

I answer low, 
'Tis only after loss of earthly love 

That we know, 



Whether through the glaring day so long, 

And in the night, 
The sweet and blessed Saviour's love 

Will answer quite. 



76 



Whether on our brow His Hand laid 

Soft and cool, 
Will like that other one its pain and throbbings 

Bring under rule. 

And if a mingled voice and look of His 

Will always give 
Such vivid joy to Life, that 'tis sweetness 

Just to live. 



I have tried it ; I have lost my earthly love 

You must know ; 
But though he left me in the darkness, I knew 

Where to go. 



I asked my Lord, "Oh love and make me lovely! 

True to Thee 
If Thou wilt but guard and guide me 

I will be." 



My prayer is answering; yes, I'm happy, 

Very, quite, 
I gave myself into right royal hands, 

My Lord ! My right ! 



77 



YULE-TIDE 

Across the seas where bells are chiming out 
A tune which strangely stirs the hearts of all, 
Holding many captive to memory's sweet thrall, 
Burnetii the yule log, putting cold to rout. 
But in the Occident where pales the light 
Of custom in the sun of progress swift, 
Burneth the yule log in the heart's uplift, 
As escapes love's secret by the way of sight. 
Burneth the yule log when on the mother's arm 
Is laid the tender burden of her child ; 
And when an artist paints the Undefiled 
And feels his strained soul grow calm. 
And when the poet hath his thought unfurled, 
And sent it tenderly to meet the world. 



78 



A CHILD'S BESEECHING 

All is not done when a child is housed, 
And wrapped about with raiment warm 
To guard from wind and frost the tender form, 
And given food ; the heart is soon aroused, 
And while the child is given honey sweet 
To mask the bread that otherwise is dry, 
The childish lips full often breathe a sigh, 
And laggard is the pace of little feet 
If budding life with love is not bedewed, 
And its expression. A child beseeches this, 
And yearning for it with an instinct crude, 
Is fostered into blossom by nightly kiss 
Which is the sweet to mask the life that's nude ; 
And this sweet, little children sometimes miss. 



79 



A THANKSGIVING SONNET 

The artist, Nature, hath his brushes dipped 
In various shades of scarlet and of gold 
And touched the leaves of Autumn, which unfold 
In vistas fair 'ere yet the frost hath nipped 
Their splendor. And my heart gives thanks and 

sings, 
For this yearly glimpse of beauty; for the power 
Which evokes the seasons; calleth forth the 

flower, 
And hath the mastery of all transitory things. 
And even as the blast of winter comes and sweeps 
Away the forest's leaves of scarlet hue, 
E'en so the rush of penitence which weeps, 
Will scatter all the sins of scarlet too. 
This thought the heart in thankfulness e'er keeps, 
If the sins of life be many, or by grace, be few. 



80 



CHISELING 

Souls, like diamonds, are ofttimes in the rough, 
And as the jewel, loosed from darkness, emits 

light, 
So the spirit, each day chiseled, sees with saintly 

sight, 
Ceases plunging into chaos; learns that 'tis enough 
To steadily march onward, among the rank and 

file, 
Waiting for wise orders, crushing anarchic 

thought ; 
In lieu of contemplating what some general hath 

wrought, 
Reaching the goal through patient marching o'er 

each weary mile. 
The comets in their coursing across the sky are 

grand, 
But the planets, ever shining, teach us fixedness is 

best. 
And so, through each day's chiseling, the soul will 

understand 
'Tis the sacred preparation for entering into rest ; 
Without Life, the sculptor, we could ne'er reach 

the land 
Where each heart is met with love, and infinitely 

blessed. 



81 



THANKSGIVING 

The seasons in their changes rest the heart, 

November now is speaking to my soul, 
Calling it from worldly ways apart 

To spend some holy moments, 'ere they roll 
Backward to Time's ocean, oh ! so vast ! 

Leaves of woodland rustle o'er my head, 
Outward is the golden grain amassed 

Which shall yield the winter's bread. 
The quiet scene of beauty brings sweet peace, 

The horn of plenty has been opened wide. 
A thought within my heart knows no surcease, 

Casting sensuous things of earth aside. 
Since Christ died, the cause for thankfulness has 
been, 

That His redeeming blood can wash away all 
sin. 



82 



ANEMONES 

There grows a gentle flower of fragrance rare, 

Called anemone, or kissed by the wind, 

And after rough tossing, still you will find, 

A flower of sweetness nods to the air. 

For into a garden there came one day, 

A wind that was strong and rough and bold, 

And soon the hyacinths all were cold, 

As on their battle field prostrate they lay. 

But when the blast began to blow, 

The anemone bowed as oft before, 

For life in the garden taught her to know 

That winds must be wrestled with o'er and o'er. 

In the garden of life if e'er bent low, 

Uplift the heart with this flower lore. 



83 



ABBA, FATHER 

Oh nature, out of chaos assuming wondrous forms 
Of dazzling suns, of radiant stars and ever circling 

orbs, 
My soul the knee is bending, as these mutations 

sweep 
Across my daz£d vision, but ah! how sad my 

heart 
If destined here to worship, denied the heartfelt 

cry, 

Abba, Father. 

And science, well nigh equal in its majestic course 
To sun and stars in heaven, moving on through 

time 
In search of truth and wisdom, unfolding some 

new law 
Of Nature's hidden secrets, amassing, learning, 

groping, 
Yet failing still to cry with reverence and yearning, 
Abba, Father. 

But greatest of all teachers, Religion seems to 

speak 
In music and in flowers, and in trilling song of 

birds, 
In the mystic roar of conch shell, and highest 

Alpine peak 
To the inmost heart and being ; in the silence then 

is learned, 
That which eases life's sad burden ; 'Tis the cry of 
Abba, Father. 



84 



CHANSON DE NUIT 

Night, sorrow's opiate, I greet thee, Night, 

And welcome thee, as one would meet a friend 

Not long departed, yet Time's wheels do bend 

To slowness, 'till her gracious self's in sight. 

Night comes stealing on us unawares, 

Muffled are her even footsteps fall 

Which the senses ether like enthrall, 

'Till consciousness deserts her throne with cares. 

And now begins the gentle reign of Night, 

And all her subjects flitting here and there, 

Bow to her magic and adore her might, 

Chant songs of praises through the air, 

To her who steals away our sight 

And gives us respite from all care. 



85 



CHANSON DE MATIN 

The approach of morn is as a gray clad nun, 
Whose mild effulgence suffers an eclipse 
Before Aurora's splendors, she who sips 
The morn's first nectar, scatters flowers, leads the 

Sun 
Upon his mission, of gilding earth with gold, 
Of opening throats of songbirds, of coaxing flowers 
To yield their fragrance, of exerting powers 
Which fill the earth with blessings manijold. 
Oh ! wearied pilgrim, wakened by the shining, 
Called by daily duties to the road once more, 
Gird you with your garments, and without re- 
pining 
March with this day's hours more cheerily than of 

yore, 
For across the far horizon Hope's figure is out- 
lining 
Less faintly, as life's morning breaks nearer to 
the shore. 



CONVALESCENCE 

Back through the waters that wash the shore 

Of the Infinite, seeking its old time place, 
Journeyed my soul to its body once more, 

Prostrate with suffering, wrecked in life's race. 
Naught could my soul of that weird journey tell, 

Save that it sighted no heavenly strand, 
As it unconsciously made its farewell 

And drifted away toward an unknown land. 
Oh! that mysterious, wonderful morn! 

When I looked again on the light of the world, 
Broken, and helpless as the child new born, 

Shorn of my strength, my powers furled. 
Flowers were brought me, fresh as woodland rill ; 

Suffering was buried ; he loves me still ! 



87 



TWO THANKSGIVING SONNETS 

I 

On my brow, and in my heart, I may not wear 
Excess of thankfulness, I may miss 
Supremest joy, but have not failed in this; 
Thankful the burden is not too much to bear. 
Thankful to have grown in strength 
Though still almost too weak 
With utmost confidence to speak 
Of what has come to me at length. 
Thankful every day for friendly love, 
But most of all for hope, 
Which teaches me to look above 
The world's vexations, patiently to watch 
For the pathway of the Ascension dove, 
Lighting up the world through which I grope. 

LOFC. 



TWO THANKSGIVING SONNETS 

II 

A little surer of the way than when 
The leaves of Autumn last were falling, 
And though my wounded heart is calling 
For strength and consolation, now as then, 
A little firmer are the steps now taken 
Along a pathway dark and curtained round 
With mist, with which the Future will abound ; 
So thankful am I for my faith unshaken. 
My faith ! Ah ! never may it be impaired ! 
And hope, sweet inspiration, grant thy light 
To one who, stumbling oft, has sadly fared 
Along life's way, but trusts the future to be bright 
With compensation ; trusts, too, to One Who cared 
To rock our heartaches in the cradle of His might. 



AN EASTER POEM 

What gives Easter its beauty? 

Is it the flowers fair, 
Or the snow-white cloth of the altar, 

And the people kneeling there? 

Wherein lies the charm of Easter? 

Is it the music sweet, 
Or the thought that we are kneeling 

Close to the Master's feet? 

Perhaps it is the music, 

And the fragrance of flowers rare, 
And the thought that we are kneeling 

At the feet of the Master there. 

These are the fair externals, 

But the thought that lies within 

Gives to Easter its beauty, 
His triumph over sin. 



90 



OCT? : ' 



